Racerback
by High Times Contest
Summary: "As I watch him do the breast stroke through the choppy morning waters, I almost want to be in his place. What would it be like to be so alone?" AH/AU Ed, Jas and pot cookies. Entry for the High Times Contest
1. Summer

**Story Name: Racerback**

**Rating: M**

**Genre: Drama/Friendship/Slash**

**Pairing: Edward/Jasper**

**Total Word Count: 12,212**

**Summary: ****"As I watch him do the breast stroke through the choppy morning waters, I almost want to be in his place. What would it be like to be so alone?" AH/AU Ed, Jas and pot cookies. **

A/N: The "high" times in this story allow Edward to see what he refuses to acknowledge when he's straight and sober.

Hehe. Pun.

* * *

"You can have some friends over if you want," my father, Carlisle says and I smirk. _Friends._ My friends aren't exactly my favorite people. They're more like props. "You know, a girl, too. If you want."

Carlisle is trying to be subtle, and failing. I smile and nod as he walks out the door for another graveyard shift at the hospital. The man works harder than anyone I've ever known, but deep down I think he's just hiding. I don't blame him; I can't. We all hide. It's the natural default setting of the human system.

As for his not-so-subtle request, I doubt that will happen. I've never had a girlfriend. There is no desire in me to acquire one. If I feel pent up, I have my fist and the Internet. If I want more than that, I have alcohol and fucking a nameless cheerleader with my eyes closed at a friend's house party. Beyond that, I don't care. There's nothing in me that craves that kind of connection.

Every once in a while, I find myself wondering why—whenever my friends whine about one of their chicks getting them down—but I never dwell on the subject for too long. I never dwell on anything for long. If something is lingering at the back of my brain, itching at me for its attention, I have the ocean to run to. And yes, I do run and hide. Just like my father at the hospital, I have the waves to lose myself in.

I'd always rather be at the ocean. Waking up before the sun to catch the early tide, paddling out past the break and waiting for the perfect swell to appear on the horizon. Feeling my stomach drop at the first dip when my board catches the sweet spot at the top of the crest of the wave, and I know I'm in for a good ride. The peace of being alone and without pressure or expectation beating me down. That's what I crave. Nothing more is needed.

But I've noticed more and more that my perfect solitude isn't entirely my own. Someone is always swimming out past the break, far beyond the drop-off in the deep waters, practicing laps from jetty to pier.

I know that kid. I've known him since middle school, back when he was overweight and wore glasses on his round, pimpled face. His name is Jasper Whitlock and he has no one. No one asking him about his non-existent girlfriends, or kindly asking to practice at the piano for _one more hour;_ no one expecting him to fix the world because his father couldn't save his mother...or whatever.

He's the outcast of the school. If I crave for the world to leave me be, he's been forcibly driven to the outskirts of society where the world ignores him completely.

As I watch him do the breast stroke through the choppy morning waters, I almost want to be in his place. What would it be like to be so alone? To worry about no one's expectations except your own? But then I remind myself that he didn't ask to be shunned, he was sentenced to such an existence. I should know; my friends were the ones who put him there.

He used to smile a lot. I remember seeing him in the halls, not caring about the pointed whispers and the glances that passed him by as he walked to class by himself. Even then he was alone, but he'd yet to become the introvert he is now. He had a mop of curly blond hair and wore purple checkered vans on his too-big feet. I can still picture it.

But no one seemed to like his smile, or his happy demeanor, and so, they broke him. One by one, they shoved his books out of his hand, pushed him into the walls, snapped his glasses, and spit in his hair. I know because I watched it happen. I saw his smiles turn to frowns and his outward, happy appearance turn black with his mood. His bright colored clothes became dark and torn, adorned with pins and hand spray-painted sayings that lashed out at the world around him. His once blond hair was dyed black, and hung low down to his shoulders, no longer curly, but dank and greasy.

When he started carrying around a tackle box freshman year—the kind the fisherman along the jetty would always use for their lure—the rumors flew. He was dangerous, he was building a bomb, he was carrying a gun...everything. High school kids are nothing but drama—it's almost like they wanted Jasper to go Columbine on their asses. I never believed any of it, he was always just quiet and kept to himself. Alone. Like I wanted to be.

During sophomore year two things happened to Jasper that made the school take notice of him for a different reason: his father died and he joined the swim team. The first correlated to the second since his mother made him take up a sport to keep his mind off his father's death. She too, became an eccentric, taking steps to become a yoga instructor and started eating all raw food. I remembered my dad talking about her wanting to start up a vegetarian cooking class in the hospital's cafeteria, and regretfully, having to turn her down.

It seemed they were both trying to move past William Whitlock's death as fast as possible, and I couldn't blame them. My mother died when I was twelve, and the only way I dealt with the pain was to ignore it entirely.

While Jasper was pushing himself to become as fast as his teammates, his body started to change; we all saw it. He shed the baby fat as if it were nothing but an outer layer of clothing, dropping weight faster than anyone could keep up with, making the girls with self-esteem issues who ate their feelings rage with jealousy.

His once clumsy, heavy limbs became lanky and he walked with a purpose down the halls, his head no longer hanging low and hidden behind his long, black hair. He developed muscle tone and speed in the water, bypassing all his teammates and practically giving the swim coach a semi each time he clocked in a new record. People started talking to him again, inviting him to parties, asking him to sit with them at lunch.

He ignored them all. Turning down each offer and walking off to the art rooms to spend his time, tackle box in hand.

He sort of fascinated me.

After years of being treated like shit and going through the pain of losing his dad, he was finally given respect. People called him by his actual name as opposed to the many monikers my classmates had provided him with over the years, and yet he still turned his back. He didn't need their approval, he had his own.

I want to be able to do that.

I've always been given approval, and I've never even asked for it. People respect me because I look the part. I'm tall, with a strong jaw and green eyes. I'm lean and muscled—thanks to the waves kicking my ass each morning—and I like to wear nice clothes. I have the grades needed to get me into an Ivy league school and enough writing chops to weasel out a scholarship or two. Girls think I'm _pretty_ and guys think I'm tough or some shit because I don't talk and they just all assume I'm in my own head. I'm constantly flanked by idiots who don't really know me and never have.

In one way, I'm just like Jasper: I travel in the circle I was placed in.

But even I know that's a lie. I wasn't placed in anything, I was just assumed. Jasper wasn't placed either, he was beaten into his introverted corner, and I've been too much of a coward all these years to ever do a thing to stop it.

I know I'm too late to save him that kind of torture, but as I watch him swim rhythmically through the morning tide, I find myself wanting to know him. I want to know why he still keeps to himself if everyone in school now considers him mysterious and dark as as opposed to dangerous and freakish.

But he ignores me too.

Each morning, if we've somehow shown up at the same time, he keeps to his spot at the other end of the beach—stretching and warming up—while I walk down towards the pier to catch the waves that swell up in between the pillars.

I try to catch his eye but he never looks my way. It almost makes me angry at how easily he can shake off the existence of the people around him, as if we're nothing but blights on his personal landscape. Not that I can blame him since that's exactly how he was treated for years, but how can he remain so god damned stoic?

I want to know how. I want to know him.

There is one little problem though: I'm a coward. The reason I don't talk isn't because I want to put out the aura of _strong and silent_. No. I don't talk because I'm afraid that I'll scream if I ever dare to open my mouth. I give one word answers in school and I keep my conversations with my father to a minimum.

Despite my mouth being sealed like a vault, my brain never shuts up. I can't help but analyze everything, over think everything. I observe and organize the information I see around me into little drawers in my head, complete with labels and categories. My therapist calls my cataloging a latent Obsessive-Compulsive tendency, I just call it life.

One of the many things I've cataloged over the years? Jasper. I have file upon metaphorical file of him stored away in my mind. Starting at his stupid purple vans to his still, ever-present tackle box that I know he sells pot cookies out of it behind the school and along the pier. How he doesn't get busted, what with carrying it around blatantly during school, I've yet to figure out.

I feel my stomach drop out from under me and curse. I've just lost a wave due to my never ending over thinking. I put my head down on my board for a moment and breathe in the smell of the coconut wax and the salt of the sea, letting it calm me before pushing up and turning round, having drifted too far down the shoreline for my liking. In the distance, I see Jasper climbing out of the waves towards the beach. He's done for the morning, and that means it's close to seven a.m. I need to get moving.

That night—after a silent dinner in front of the TV with Carlisle—I decide that in the morning I'll approach Jasper. As I lie in bed with my hands behind my head, I allow myself to smile just the tiniest bit, picturing how the conversation will go.

But in the morning as I stub my toe getting out the door with my board—cursing at the glimpse of sun peeking out behind the horizon—I know I'm late. I overslept, having woken up several times in the night sweaty and frustrated, not remembering why I felt so pent up and edgy.

I throw my board in the back of my brother's old Jeep—he's been off at college for the past year—and gun the gas pedal. No one is on the road except for the few dedicated runners who jog past me as I fly down towards the beach, but I still check out my rearview for sleepy, hidden cops.

Jumping out of the Jeep at the pier, I rush down the dunes, not even bothering with grabbing my sunscreen or a towel, scanning the water for what I'm looking for.

He's not there.

Sagging my shoulders I drop my shit at my feet and trudge towards the water's edge, disappointed and angry at myself. My toe is throbbing and despite the overcast of the morning, I know I'll walk away from this depressing day sunburned because my skin is fucking pale, and I need to slather myself in 80 proof if I want to keep from looking like a blistered lobster for a week.

Something catches my eye down the shoreline and my head snaps up in time to see a hand shoot out of the water.

"What the...?" Another hand, more splashes. Someones fighting the current in the waves. Who the hell would be stupid enough to swim this early... "Jasper!"

I run down the beach, throwing off my shirt and kicking away my sandals as I go. I can see it's him the closer I get, and my heart pounds wondering what's wrong with the school's champion swimmer that he suddenly can't tread water.

Diving in, I paddle as fast as I can out past the break to where he's struggling, grabbing him as soon as I can reach him. Strong arms and one leg latches around me in a vice grip as his hot, gasping breaths tickle my ear and his black hair tangles over my skin.

"I got you," I say, pushing back through the tide, struggling with the added weight. Jasper's arms are slick against my shoulders and his one leg slides back and forth across my thigh as I work us closer to the shore. He's clearly remembered sunscreen and I'm cursing the oily texture of his skin because it's making it impossible for him to hold tight to me.

When I finally find my footing, I take a deep breath and turn to help Jasper sling his arm over me. There's something wrong with his one leg, but he limps towards the shore with me holding him up by his side.

We both fall to our knees in the sand and he leans heavily away from me, grabbing onto his bum leg.

"Shit...fucking shit..." he's mumbling as he massages the muscles in his calf and rolls along the shore, his head thrown back.

"Charlie horse?" I ask, my hands hovering over his leg.

"No shit."

Taking a chance, I grab hold of his leg and gently try to extend it from it's bent position. Jasper flinches and he grabs onto my thigh. I jerk, suddenly enraged, but I bite back my irrational anger and continue to stretch out his leg.

"Breathe," I tell him and he nods, his fingers digging into the rubber of my half-suit covering my legs. After a few moments, I can see the muscles in his calf relax, and his rapid pants start to subside.

We both sit in the sand calming down and I realize my heart is pounding in my chest, though I can't reason why. _Adrenaline_, I finally decide and remove my hands from Jasper's leg.

His hand still lays limp on my thigh and his other arm is thrown over his face as his long, black hair splays out in the sand...he looks like a picture or something.

Why the hell am I thinking that?

"I knew I shouldn't of had all that shit last night."

"What?"

"I drank too much. I'm dehydrated. Hence the cramp," he explains, sitting up and brushing the sand off his skin. I watch, wide-eyed.

"Thank you...by the way. For that," he gestures towards the water with a sandy palm.

I nod, my throat suddenly feeling thick, my tongue heavy.

"You're Edward Cullen. I see you here a lot."

I nod again, still unable to speak, wondering why he never talked to me if he knew who I was. Jasper smiles and I'm so distracted I forget to ask. I blink back at him, amazed. I haven't seen him smile in years. When he grimaces and tries to bend his bad leg, I jump up, something occurring to me.

Jogging over to his tackle box by his other things in the sand, I grab a package of cookies from the bottom and hand them to Jasper. He quirks an eyebrow at me, questioning.

"Have one. It'll calm you."

"You're Dr. Cullen's kid."

"So?"

"You know what's in these?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"It's obvious."

"Again. How?"

I shrug and hold back a smile. If he doesn't realize how obvious it is that he mysteriously disappears at the beginning of each lunch period before a stream of kids show up ten minutes later in the cafeteria with dazed looks and an overabundant need for nachos each day, he must be stupid.

But wait, Jasper isn't stupid. It's just...no one pays attention to him as much as I do. My amusement fades and I slump in the sand.

"Thank you," Jasper says, drawing my attention away from that depressing realization and taking a cookie from his own stash. "It will help. Thanks."

All I can do is nod. Again. When I feel a cookie being pressed into my palm, I look up.

"You look like you could use one."

Cautiously, I take a bite, never having ingested pot in any form before. I don't smoke and only drink when I want my brain to shut up. The cookie tastes normal, if not extra chocolatety with a bit of peanut butter. I smile despite myself and eat the whole thing in one more bite. Jasper laughs and hands me another. I thank him quietly and eat it just as fast as the first. It's such a good fucking cookie.

"You make these?" I ask.

"Yup."

"How?"

Jasper quirks an eyebrow and smirks at me. I duck my head, not used to seeing him look so...normal, happy, light? I can't think of a word, though I'm feeling rather normal, happy and light myself.

"Do you know anything about pot?"

I shake my head, only half lying; I know the consequences of every controlled substance. Being a doctor's son, I've had information pamphlets and case files and lectures shoved down my throat since I was old enough to talk. But in terms of making baked goods with them, I'm at a loss.

"I'm not gonna corrupt you, Cullen," Jasper says, standing and brushing the sand off his legs. He's in a black Speedo. Only. I hadn't noticed that particular detail earlier. Or maybe I had cataloged that information away somewhere, but then again, his Speedo has never been so close to my face before.

He walks away, chuckling softly to himself before I can say goodbye or even _okay, no problem_. I feel like an idiot.

I don't surf, nor do I move from my spot in the sand, I just sit and watch the waves for an hour, completely zoned and awed by how they look extra curly-cued and supple today. Those two words don't make sense in my brain and I smack my lips together, needing a drink.

The ocean is not a viable option. Salt water...bad.

Trudging back to my Jeep with heavy feet, I curse Jasper and his cookies. At the rate I'm moving, I'm never getting home—but everything feels so nice, why not take it all in? Not to mention my all consuming need for a cheeseburger. Dammit.

I don't go to the beach the next day. It's two days before the end of summer and Carlisle insists on bonding time before the start of my senior year. Why he's suddenly nostalgic and sentimental, I'll never know, but we pile the boards on the top of his Mercedes and head on to my great-grand parents cabin three hours down the coast. I learned how to surf along that stretch of shore, so I don't put up much of a fight in getting a chance to visit again—even if Nan and Pop are long gone. It's a welcome escape away from my nagging thoughts about Jasper.

"Something on your mind, Edward?" Carlisle asks as we drive, the open windows pushing our hair every which way and keeping the sweltering heat of the noonday sun at bay.

"No," I tell him, giving him a few good seconds of eye contact so that he's not suspicious. He nods and pushes on the gas pedal. Something tells me he's running, just like I am.

I don't ask. I give him the same respect he gives me. It's just the way we do things.


	2. Hallways

"Please, Mrs. Cope. There has to be an open spot."

"There is, Mr. Cullen, I'm just shocked that you'd want to take such an advanced art class. It's not even art, it's art _history_. You realize that, right?"

"Yes."

"And you want to give up your advanced bio-chemistry class? Weren't you going for pre-med in college?"

"No." I'm going to a music conservatory. My father will just have to deal with that. I smile at Mrs. Cope, hoping that my pretty face will be useful for something in this situation.

"Alright, well, I guess I can rework your schedule."

"Thank you, Mrs. Cope. Really." I give her another huge grin as I back away, taking my newly updated schedule with me.

My new class—advanced placement art history—is the first period of the day after homeroom, so I jog through the aimless hallways towards the art rooms at the sound of the warning bell, not wanting to be late.

When I enter the room the teacher lifts up her frizzy, scarf-adorned head, and tips her cat eyeglasses down her nose at me. "Can I help you?"

I take a breath and introduce myself. She stares at me skeptically before gesturing for me to take a seat. Students whisper as I walk past and sit down at the only empty seat in the room: the one next to Jasper Whitlock. He doesn't notice at first, having earbuds in his ears and leaning over a sketchbook in a black raceberback tank that shows off how fucking great swimming can be for your body...why am I thinking this?

I shift in my chair and he doesn't look up, but when I extend my legs and lean back he straigtens, shocked at seeing someone sitting next to him. No one ever does.

He glares at me for a good minute before putting his iPod away and turning his attention towards the teacher. Whatever kind of expectation I had about seeing him again dies right then and there.

He doesn't even say hi.

_You haven't either, dick. _

I shake off my disappointment and give the teacher—Miss Pientre—my full attention. This class is a two semester college course shoved into one high school year. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Two weeks later and Jasper hasn't even dared to acknowledge my existence. The one time I ever want anyone to pay attention to me and I'm ignored. Oh, the irony.

I see him in the hallways, trudging pass the underclassmen with an air of authority tinged with the anarchy of his style. The freshman and sophomores are too terrified and in awe of him to do anything but clear a path, and he just smiles down at them, amused by their easy retreat.

Apparently, I've become a stalker, because all I can do is follow him around the school like some lost puppy while he continues to ignore me. All I ever see of him is that damn black stripe of his tank that cuts down his spine and curves round his shoulder blades, like a permanent Y of frustration taunting me from whatever corner I lurk in.

He doesn't acknowledge me at the beach either. He knows I'm there; I catch him watching me. But that's all he does, nothing else. Not even a wave or a smirk does he give me.

He's driving me insane.

By the third week of too much art history homework, and not even so much as a sideways glance from Jasper, I decide to do something about it. I show up outside at the beginning of the junior's lunch hour, leaning against the abrasive cement blocks of the school's cafeteria, enjoying the shade the alcove of the air vents afford me. The heat of the summer still hangs heavy in the air, making me wish for the ocean and it's breeze as opposed to the oppressive halls of this suffocating school.

Like clockwork, Jasper turns the corner—tackle box in hand—and takes up his spot underneath a tree across the street from where I'm standing. He always looks the same in that damn black racerback tank, and black faded jeans. I've noticed that he wears either sandals or cowboy boots depending on the heat. Today, it's boots. I guess he doesn't feel the heat like the rest of us.

Technically he's on the private property of some poor homeowner and not the school, so he's got some smarts, but I still can't imagine that he wouldn't get caught with being so fucking blatant. He's not even trying to hide.

He sees me watching him and smirks at his boots but doesn't do much else, just sells his cookies to the kids that show up, barely speaking the entire time. His earbuds never even leave his ears. He's so detached from this whole scene, it's amazing. How the hell does he do it?

When the last of his customers stumble away, happy with their stupid fucking cookies, I push off the wall and cross the street in less than five strides.

"Cullen, you sure you want to be seen with me?" Jasper asks, not even looking at me as I approach him. His back muscles twist and shift as he latches up his tackle box, and I notice the infuriating earbuds still stuck in his ears. Why do they bother me so much?

"I don't give a shit."

He lifts his head at that, and I glare at him, irrationally angry that he's ignored me for all these weeks. I kind of did him a big ol' favor by saving his life that day at the beach. He could at least throw a fucking _howdy_ my way.

"Want a cookie?" He offers, smiling and making my thought process shift on its axis. I shake my head and regroup. There was a reason I came here.

"No. I want to know why you won't even acknowledge my existence."

"Wow, Cullen. That's the longest string of words I've ever heard you utter in one go. Congrats."

I bite back the_ fuck you_ threatening to leave my mouth and wait, hoping my anger is just some kind of teenage angst hormone and not something more in-depth that I'd have to worry about—or run from—later.

"Each second you stand next to me you damn yourself further, you realize that, right?"

"I don't care."

"So you've said."

Rocking on my heels, I shove my hands in my pockets and try to think of a reason to stay out here with him. Nothing comes to mind, and I'm cursing at myself because now I'm beyond late for my German class.

"I need help with the art history homework," I blurt a minute later, wanting to slam my head into the nearest hard surface as each stupid word leaves my mouth.

Jasper merely raises an eyebrow. "You do?"

"Yeah."

"Are you telling me this because you'd like me to be the one to help you?"

The amusement in his tone is killing me, but I ignore it and nod. He smirks and finally stands up from his crouched position on the ground.

"I'll catch you later then," he says, slapping me on the back and walking—no, he's moseying over—to the cafeteria's back door, turning up the volume on his iPod as he goes.

For the rest of the day I'm nothing but a fuming ball of anxiety. I check over the heads of everyone in the hallways, trying to make out Jasper's slightly faded black hair, or the shock of his pale shoulders against his black tank. I hang around at my locker for an extra ten seconds each time I stop by to pick up a new book, hoping to see him turn a corner, or hear the jingle of his tackle box echoing down the hall, but no. Nothing. For the entire day, not one glimpse of him do I see.

I don't want to admit it—even to myself—but I'm disappointed. So disappointed I don't even notice the Ziplock bag on the dash of my brother's old Jeep as I pull out of the school's parking lot until it's threatening to slide out the window from a sharp right turn I make. I grab it before it goes flying and pull over to the side of the road to read the note tucked into the plastic next to a chocolate-peanut butter cookie.

_See you at the beach, 5 AM. _

_Enjoy the cookie, _

_J_

Carlisle picks up on my change of mood that night over dinner, and he mentions it as he sips at a glass of water—which is odd considering he normally has whiskey with his late night meals. I give him some excuse about getting to read a David Foster Wallace novel in Lit class and slink off to my room before he pries any further.

At 4:55 the next morning, I'm yawning as I pull out of the drive to head down towards the ocean. Normally, I get to the beach at around 5:30 or 6 if I'm running late, giving me at least an hour of surfing time before washing off and heading on over to school. But apparently, Jasper's got me beat by a good hour each morning.

Shit, I'm tired.

As I trudge down the dunes towards the water, I see Jasper bending and twisting in odd directions...yoga. Jasper's doing a full on yoga practice and the sun hasn't even gotten up yet. He's so fucking weird.

"Morning, Cullen," he says, waving at me from between his legs, since he's currently bent forward and holding onto the backs of his knees. I tilt my head to the side and wave back, confused and in pain just watching him.

"Did you bring your art history book?"

I stop dead in my tracks, wanting to bury my head in the sand. Fuck, of course!

Jasper chuckles as he stands up and stretches his arms over his head, exposing a sharp line of dirty blond hair below his belly button that leads downward. I tear my eyes away when I hear him speak again.

"That's fine. I got mine. It's in my bag there, can you grab it?" He gestures to a satchel in the sand and I pull out the text book, noticing that he has a banana and what looks like a homemade granola bar in a Ziplock bag tucked to the side of his school things. I catalog that detail into the _Jasper and his Baked Goods_ drawer in my brain.

Plopping down on the sand, I open the book up to the Archaic period of Roman art and grimace at all the creepy statues and their creepy smiles.

"How fast can you read, Cullen?"

I look up at him, confused, and shrug.

"I'm giving you twenty minutes. Study the chapter, then we're swimming." He bends into another pretzel-like pose as he talks and clicks a stop watch in his left hand. Realizing that I'm being timed, I scramble to read as fast as possible, trying to retain the insane amounts of cumbersome information crammed this stupid chapter.

An hour later, I'm floating on my board pulling the shit out of my hair as Jasper yells questions to me while he practices his back stroke. More often than not I've gotten distracted by watching him, so I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember the question he's just called out to me. For some reason, I really want to be able to show off in front of him. Too bad surfing doesn't count as an appropriate form of studying.

"Too late, you fail." Something shoves my board hard out from under me and I go flying into the water.

"The fuck!" I shout, bursting up from beneath the surface, rubbing at my salt-stung eyes. Jasper's laughing and he's right next to me. I jerk sideways, swimming away from him. He follows.

"What's the answer, Cullen?"

"Why do you call me Cullen?"

He shrugs.

"I don't like it," I admit and climb back up on my board.

"What do you like?"

The question catches me off guard and I stare down at him, wondering how to exactly to answer him.

"You're getting burnt," he says, and starts to head towards the shore. I follow reluctantly.

"I am?"

"Bring some lotion tomorrow. I'll do your back for you."

And with that, he walks out of the water and goes to gather his things, not even so much as saying goodbye. I float for a few more minutes, watching him climb up the dunes in his Speedo, his hair touching down between his strong shoulder blades in long, black clumps. I find myself wondering what it would look like if it were his natural color as I trudge out of the waves and jog back towards the Jeep.

At school, he ignores me again during first period, but smirks at me in the hallways whenever he passes by. It makes me almost uncomfortable how at ease he can seem when I'm a raging bundle of nerves left in his wake. I hate feeling so unhinged, but I guess it's just a sign that I need a good amount of alone time with my fist and the Internet.

During lunch, a plastic bag with a cookie and a note drops into my lap as Jasper walks past my table and I shove back from my tray a minute later, bag clutched tightly in my hand. I still have the cookie from the last note he left me, I just haven't found the time to eat it. Pot cookies seem like something you'd share with a friend and my friends are nothing but assholes, why would I want to get high with them?

Walking out the backdoor of the cafeteria, I see Jasper lounging on the hood of my Jeep in the senior parking lot and I'm torn between being angry or happy that he knows my car.

"Fancy seeing you here, Edward." He says as I approach him, even though his eyes are closed and those annoying ass earbuds are still shoved in his ears.

"You told me to meet you here."

"So I did."

He jumps off the Jeep and I cringe, hoping that he hasn't scratched the paint with the bullet belt he has slung around his hips. His black tank rides up as he jumps down and for some reason, the sight of his stomach beneath the black is more jarring to me than when he's at the beach in nothing but a Speedo and his yoga pants. That sliver of skin is almost like looking through a key hole in a door—it unsettles me. I turn away before my face can flush.

"You didn't eat the cookie I gave you."

I grasp at the bag in my hand, ready to apologize but he beats me to it. "I mean the one on the front seat of your Jeep, just sitting there, melting in the sun."

"Oh shit."

Jasper whips out the bag from behind his back before I can dive into the car to save it and I stare at him, anger seeping into my mood.

"You went in my car?"

"The windows were open."

"Don't do that again."

"No prob. I just have a favor to ask."

I step back, confused. He's asking me for a favor?

"Can I bum a ride off you? My car is dead."

"Where is it?" I ask, looking around the lot.

"Home."

"Then how'd you get here? The beach?"

"I walked."

"Shit, Jasper. Sure, I'll drive you." I scratch at my neck. "You walked here?" I'm stunned.

"Walking's good for you."

The warning bell rings and I'm torn between continuing this conversation with him and heading to class. I decide on the later and turn around, not bothering to say goodbye since he hadn't this morning at the beach.

The only difference? I can feel him every step of the way behind me as I walk through the cafeteria and down the hallways to my next class. His presence feels like a weight on my shoulders and a line of heat down my spine. I shudder when the sensation leaves me and I know he's turned down a side hallway in a different direction. I stop, mid-stride and take a deep breath, wondering what the hell is happening to me.

Two or three days of driving Jasper around turns into a week, and then two. He's always at the beach in the mornings when I arrive—perpetually five minutes late—and from there, we head on to school after washing up at communal showers along the boardwalk. On the second day of this new ritual, I just showed up in the senior lot without invitation and he was there, leaning against my Jeep in his damn racerback tank and cowboy boots dangling lunch between his fingers in the form of a brown paper bag. It's been that way since, and today is the same, except it's unseasonably warm for October so Jasper's in sandals as opposed to his boots.

I nod at the brown paper bag, asking silently what the contents are. He quirks an eyebrow and opens it up, handing me a triangle pastry that he says is a "veggie samosa." I've never had one—it's kinda greasy and stone cold but fucking delicious. When I finish the first, he hands me a second.

"You make these?" I ask, licking my fingers.

"Not today. My ma did."

I hold back a snort at knowing that his mother still makes him lunches, but the samosas are so damn good, I can't really give him any shit about it.

"Edward," someone shouts behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see Tyler at the entrance of the lot, his expression serious. I turn back round, and Jasper is just smirking at the ground, so I walk over to Tyler, completely confused.

Nodding my head, Tyler leans in close, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Alright, Ed, what's going on?"

Lifting an eyebrow in question, he gets the hint and explains. "It's been two weeks, man, and you're still driving that sorry ass fucker around?"

"He's got a name."

"Whatever. He's also got a reputation."

"Your point?"

"My point is that it doesn't look like he's just some charity case you took on or something. It looks like...more."

"More, what?"

"I dunno, man. Like you're friends or some shit."

I stare at Tyler, wondering why his genuine concern is needed for something so trivial. So what if I'm friends with Jasper? I'm allowed to have an actual friend if I fucking want. Tyler and I have been "friends" since elementary school and he doesn't even know my brother's name. Why the fuck should it matter to him who I decide to hang out with?

Figuring that there's nothing I can say to justify the absurdity of Tyler's reasoning, I simply turn my back on him and walk on over to my Jeep, where Jasper's eating another cold samosa. He hands me his bottle of water as soon as I reach him and I take a long gulp—the cool water calming the burn of anger in my throat—before giving it back, not listening to the scoff of disgust Tyler gives as he walks away.

"Thanks." I don't know exactly why I tell him that, but I feel the need to say it regardless.

He shrugs and smiles, leaning against the Jeep and whistling something under his breath. For a kid who wears so much black, he certainly is content with himself. I envy that ability, and I find myself staring at the O of his mouth as he whistles, wishing for that confidence.

The week following Tyler's little conversation is revelatory. People whisper things as I walk past them in the hallways, and my friends don't look at me the same anymore. I've suddenly become different in their eyes because of my friendship with Jasper and as opposed to being hurt and feeling rejected, I smile, driving them all crazy. They can't faze me, and their whispers just make me laugh.

I'm still flanked by idiots in the hallways, except now they give me curious side-long glances, and all the girls mother me with worried expressions. Jessica Stanley actually brings me lunch on Friday. A bag of In-N-Out burgers to try and lure me back into the cafeteria with the rest of them, but I don't follow. Instead, I politely take the bag from her hands, thank her, and walk out to the senior lot to where Jasper's waiting, smiling the entire way.

We share the burgers like two kids excited over drinking a stolen can of their dad's beer.

Upon taking the first bite of his double-double with cheese, Jasper moans, loud and full, and I find myself spraying water all over the car next to mine at the sound, and coughing like a jack ass. Jasper's behind me instantly, patting my back and asking if I'm okay. All I can do is nod, blushing red and wanting to punch something I'm so overcome with frustration. I settle on kicking the tire of my Jeep and Jasper gives me an odd look that I'm too embarrassed to return.

I always hate when he looks at me that way, like he can see inside me, like he knows too much.

Wanting to calm my rapid heart rate, I grab the cookie I have stashed in my glove compartment and shove the thing into my mouth, swallowing in one bite. Jasper raises his eyebrow at me and I just shrug, taking a sip of water from his bottle.

"You're gonna be pretty high come sixth period."

"I don't care," I say, smiling. Jasper smiles back and opens his tackle box, grabbing a cookie to eat right along with me.

"Wanna ditch and go chill at the pier?" he asks, and it sounds like the greatest idea ever.

We jump in the Jeep and peel out of the parking lot too fast—I'm pretty sure they hear us in the cafeteria. I roll down the windows and shove Jasper's iPod into the dock—blasting whatever he'd been listening to all day—and speed on down to the pier, smiling like idiots the whole way.

"You want another?" Jasper offers and I shake my head, having had two and feeling pretty fucking awesome about life right now.

"Where do you get it?" I'm suddenly too curious not to ask. And thirsty. Where's his water bottle?

"My neighbor. That old Indian guy, Billy. He gives me his leaves and trim. They're shit for smoking but great for butter."

I have no idea what he's talking about but I'm nodding just the same. "How do you not get caught?"

All I see are dimples and I have an urge to poke them. Seriously, Jasper has dimples. When was he going to tell me? I lace my fingers together tight before I embarrass myself.

"Half the teachers buy from me. No one gives a shit."

I blink back at him, shocked, and he just laughs, leaning far over the railing, his black hair falling down past his toes.

"I told you I didn't wanna be the one to corrupt you, Cullen."

"Don't call me Cullen." I hate it when he does that. I turn and walk back down the pier, my high suddenly ruined.

I hear Jasper's bare feet padding after me—he'd left his sandals in the Jeep. When I feel his hand on my shoulder, warm palm and strong fingers, I flinch and jerk out of his grasp.

"Don't touch me!"

Jasper just stares, his pupils wide and black, his eyes boring holes into my soul, seeing everything and anything he wants. I can almost feel him breaking down my barriers one by one, like they're a tangible entity he's somehow exposed. His hair is messy and blowing past his face in the wind, and his stupid, crazy-toned chest is just there in front of me, all hard nipples and pale skin and...fuck, why am I noticing these things?

I turn away, and close my eyes. "Where's your shirt?"

"In the Jeep. I thought we were gonna swim."

"Yeah." I nod, and just walk down the pier towards the beach, feeling a need to run but holding back. I shed my shirt and jeans, not bothering with swim trunks, since boxers are pretty much the same thing and dive into the water, gasping at how cold it's gotten. I'm going to need my full wet-suit tomorrow if I want to surf in this.

I hear Jasper slosh into the waves next to me but I ignore him and swim out past the break, watching the sun sinking low and close to the horizon. Jasper follows. I can almost sense the concern drifting off of him and seeping into my skin through the water. That same shot of warmth is pressing against my spine, the one I feel whenever I know he's looking at me.

After a few minutes of his infuriating silence I snap, splashing as I turn towards him. "What?"

"Edward, it's okay."

"What is?" I ask, angry and feeling lost and disjointed and fucking hungry all at once.

Jasper dips under the water and scrubs his face with his hands. I see the beginnings of dirty-blond roots at his scalp and I have an urge to tell him to stop dying his hair, but I bite it back. When he's done shocking himself awake with the cold water, he just looks up at me with apologetic eyes and says, "Nothing. Come on, let's get some food."

After eating in silence at the diner with Jasper and getting a thorough once-over from Carlisle when I arrive home looking less than fresh, I'm sent to the kitchen with the instructions to _drink water_. I noticed a plastic bag filled with homemade granola bars on the counter, like the one Jasper had in his satchel. I resist the urge to eat the damn thing and file away the information for later; I'm just too tired to care.

Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling I'm confronted with the depressing knowledge that my brain won't shut off. I'm more frustrated than I can ever remember.

I skim through my art history book, trying to recall the exact details Jasper said about statue of a sleeping man, if it was actually human or not. There's something about a tail hidden behind his left hip echoing through my mind as I flip the pages, somehow desperate to find the picture of that statue. The man's face was tilted back, his arms behind his head and his eyes were closed. I can see it perfectly. Something was wrong, though. He was dreaming and his brow was furrowed, his mouth open...

I throw the book across the room before I damn myself by actually finding the stupid page. I run my hands through my hair and scratch up and down my thighs, trying to calm my rapid breathing. What I'm trying to ignore is straining against the waistband of my boxers, and with a whispered curse, I shove myself back on the bed and pull my dick out.

Defeated and fucking harder than granite, I make a tight fist with my hand and start stroking my cock with abandon, not even hissing at the friction of my dry palm. My hand is a blur as I race to try and come as fast as humanly possible, my fingers turning slick with precum. If I don't give myself time to think, time to close my eyes or even breathe, maybe I can get through this.

But there's no point, the faster I jerk my wrist, the harder it is not to give in and close my eyes at the sensation. I push my head back into the pillow, throw my free arm over my face, and bite at the skin of my bicep to keep from crying out as my stomach clenches and my hips start moving of their own accord.

I'm close. So, _so_ close, and as my breathing becomes harsh, rasping, and the rhythm of my wrist falters. I slip up and an image comes to mind. Shoulders: pale, muscled shoulders defined by a stripe of black down the spine...a racerback tank worn tight and perfect across a lean torso.

I push my hips off the bed, my heels digging into the mattress and my head bent forward towards my chest as my free arm reaches to tug at my balls. I whisper "oh shit," over and over as the image solidifies. He looks over his shoulder, dimples and blue eyes and dyed, black hair: Jasper smirking at me from across the hallway...I scream. My orgasm rips through me like a freight train and I explode. Falling onto my side, I pull my knees to my chest and bury my head beneath a pillow to cover up the sounds I'm making.

I'm not panting, or gasping, or moaning in the afterglow of the best orgasm I've ever had, no, I'm crying my fucking eyes out. The reason I just came so hard I saw stars was because of Jasper, and now that I know, I can't stop the tears.


	3. Acceptance

Sometime in the middle of the night I wake up sticky and gross with a note on my nightstand telling me to drink another glass of water and to eat a banana. I stare at it, dazed. Banana?

The fact that my father has been in my room—and very well might have seen the aftermath of my jerk off session earlier—doesn't even occur to me as I sit up and shove my traitor cock back into my boxers; it'd been trapped between the mattress and my hip.

I stumble to the bathroom to shower, hating the site of my hard-on pushing out along my hip like Pinoccio's fucking nose popping up to say hi. Turning the water to scalding, I will my erection down and wash up fast, wanting to get back under the warmth of my quilt.

I check my phone before closing my eyes for the night and see two unread text messages. One is from Carlisle, the standard _Be home by 6, sleep well._ And the other is from Jasper. I gulp down the nerves swelling up in my throat as I brush my thumb over the message to see it larger.

The words on the tiny screen mock me.

_No beach tomorrow. Huge storm coming in off the coast._

Feeling like I'm missing something, I text him back, disregarding the hour, thinking mindless drivel the entire time I type...I just jerked off to an image of your face and I want to run screaming from the sight of you and yet I can't, so please just tell me where the fuck you live so I can come pick you up like the pathetic ass hole I am...

_I'll still drive you. Where's your house? _

His response is instant.

_5 streets down from the pier. Wayfarer Lane. Look for Tibetan prayer flags._

I smile in the dim light of my room and then my stomach drops and embarrassment hits. I put the phone on my night stand and curl into a fetal position beneath the covers, wishing my mother were alive because sometimes I just really need a fucking hug.

I don't care if I'm 18 and fully grown and shit; this is _so_ one of those times.

A thunder clap wakes me up not two hours later and I roll over, my cock achingly hard again. I groan and try to ignore it, but the splattering of rain on the windows mixed with the lightning from the storm is making it impossible to sleep. So, instead, I stare at my ceiling and think.

Thinking is bad. Thinking leads to obsessive, analytical breakdowns of every detail I've ever bothered to notice. Every nuance I can remember, I catalog into an endless and tiring stream of imagined labels and notes, which normally leads to a headache.

And right now, my headache is revolving around Jasper.

Jasper with his faded black hair and secret smiles that he seems to show only to me. Jasper with that stupid wife-beater and his cowboy boots...his tackle box and fucking special cookies.

Lightning flashes through the room and I hear a beep signalling a new text message.

_You still awake? _

I smile at the phone, hating myself a little. _Yes. _

_Wanna meet somewhere? _

Caught off guard by his question, I check the clock on the nightstand. 3:30 a.m.

_Where?_

_My house. _

I stare at the little print, confused at my own jumbled feelings. This seems profound in a way, even though that word is too big to be caused by such a small font. Still, I text back.

_Isn't your mom sleeping? _

_She's not here. _

That makes me grin; Carlisle is gone too.

_Okay, give me twenty. _

Faster than I'd likely admit, I shove back the covers and pull on the first pair of jeans I see on my floor. My hair is a mess when I check the mirror in the bathroom as I brush my teeth but I ignore it. No time to fix it anyway.

Throwing on a sweatshirt and a pair of boots by the door, I'm in my car in less than ten minutes and heading on down towards the ocean. The thunder is so loud and strong it's pumping a bass beat through my bones and the lightning is sparking forks through the sky as I count down the five streets from the pier like Jasper said in his text.

When I see Wayfarer, I make a sharp turn and squint through the rain splattered windows for the prayer flags, which I'm now realizing I have no idea what they are. Something catches my attention though, a silhouette of a man on a porch and I slow to a crawl in the street.

Is it crazy that I can recognize Jasper's silhouette?

That sudden realization makes me angry. More angry than I can readily comprehend in that moment and I pull over to the curb and slam the car into park. My breathing is heavy and I'm fogging the windows, but despite the rain and my self-induced fog, I can still see the outline of Jasper on his porch, waiting.

His arms are folded, like he knows.

Does he know? Is that why he wanted me to meet him?

I shake my head, trying to jar some reason back into it. He can't know. There is no way he'd know what I just did not four hours ago in my room. I mean, guys jerk off. It's part of life. It's healthy. When I was twelve, Carlisle sat me down and handed me a pamphlet on masturbation and a bottle of lube, wanting me to be prepared if the urge ever struck.

See? Normal.

So why am I panting like I've just run a mile at full speed, and gripping to the steering wheel so tight it's creaking beneath my fingers?

I punch the wheel with my palm and look out the window. He's still there. Arms still folded, back lit by the light of the the front room.

I hate him. He's done this to me. Fucked me up. Messed with my head. It's because of him that I cried into my pillow wishing for my fucking _Mommy_. He's stripped me of every barrier and left me bare to the world.

I hate him.

Shoving open the car door, I slam it shut behind me and stalk across the street in the downpour, uncaring about the rain. My fists are balled and my teeth are clenched—I'm so strained I feel ready to snap.

Walking up the steps to Jasper is like a death march. I can see his face now, and it's impassive, unreadable, like so many other times I've seen him and wanted to know so desperately what he was thinking. He never lets anything slip, he's just too closed off. How the fuck does he do it?

"Edward."

I can't bring myself to take another step. I stand one level down on the steps, exposed to the rain and the thunder outside of the porch overhang, furious and losing my shit faster than I can control.

To make things worse, Jasper is moving towards me, his arms now at his sides and his face guarded. He looks...apprehensive.

"What's wrong?"

I laugh out, harsh and short, almost like a cough of pure bitterness. He has no idea how much he's fucked me over by just being him. He'll know soon enough.

"I can't help you, Edward, unless you tell me."

This time, my laugh is longer, more consuming. I have to bend over to hold my sides from the pain in my ribs from pushing out so much air.

"Help me?" I spit out. His condescension is not amusing. "_Help_ me! You're the one who's fucked me. Why would I want you to help me?"

I turn to walk back down the steps, warring with myself over lashing out at my only friend and wanting to purge this hatred from my body. It's eating at me and I want it gone. When I feel Jasper's hand try to clutch around my upper arm, I snap.

"Don't touch me!" _I feel too much when you do_.

I push him backwards up the steps, shoving him until he hits the wood of his front door. The knocker bounces on it's perch and I have an urge to punch that too. Fucking knocker.

Jasper's eyes are wide and his hair is everywhere, the rain having dampened a few strands around his face. I hate that it's covering up any part of him and push it back with rough hands. Jasper's expression changes to one of confusion and I want to spit. I can't control myself when I'm around him. I punch the door beside his head and then wrench my hand back in pain.

"Fuck!"

I crumple to the floor of the porch and hold my hand to my chest, despising life. Jasper knows enough at this point to not touch me, so I'm free to have my own little breakdown without his input. Streaks of salty tears slide down my face and I taste them on my lips as I pull my knees to my chest and hide in my arms.

Everything is too much. The sound of the rain, the pain in my hand, that sensation of heat pressing against my spine because I know Jasper's watching me: it's all too much.

The sounds of the storm erupt around me as I cry like a fucking two year-old on Jasper Whitlock's porch in the middle of it all. If I didn't hate myself enough earlier for jerking off to an image of my best friend's face, I sure as hell do now.

"What the fuck are prayer flags anyway?" I snap out a minute later, needing the silence to end.

"What?"

"Prayer flags!" I yell over my shoulder.

Jasper waits a beat then points to the pieces of colored cloth flapping in the wet wind hanging from the rafters. "Those."

"Oh."

More silence. I hate it. A few minutes later, I snap again.

"You're not Tibetan."

_God_, I'm pathetic.

"My ma studied Buddhism."

This conversation is stupid, so I just stop talking. The rain has lightened slightly as I look out past the porch, and I'm really fucking happy to notice that the thunder has moved on. That shit was giving me a massive headache.

I feel Jasper sit down next to me and I try not to visibly tense at his close presence. I owe him an apology, I know, but I can't bring myself to calm down to that point just yet.

Instead, Jasper asks me several inane questions in a row, confusing me and making me look at him sideways. He just shrugs so I try to answer the best I can, realizing a moment too late that he's trying to take my mind off my troubles.

I stand and walk over to the railing, he's too...too close when we sit next to each other.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I'm just about ready to apologize when he drops a bomb on me.

"It's okay, you know? Being the way you are."

I look up, shocked and confused.

"What _way_ am I?" I ask, slow and curious, feeling my anger spike up again.

"I shouldn't be the one to say it."

Betrayal twists in my gut, and I attack. "Jesus, will you get off your fucking pedestal already? What the fuck do you mean?"

"You know the answer."

"Cut the cryptic bullshit, Jas. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do."

I kick back on the railing, hearing the wood creak in protest and step forward. "Fuck off. You don't know me. You don't know what I'm feeling or how much it fucking hurts!"

"What hurts?" He shouts back, stepping closer. "To be abandoned? Lonely? The outcast? The freak? You're petrified of becoming a social leper? Guess what, jack ass, I already am one. Have been since I was fucking seven. So don't tell me I don't understand."

"I don't give a shit about what people think, you know that!"

"Then why are you so terrified of me saying it?"

"Fuck you!"

"Do you think that helps? Fighting it?"

"Fighting what!"

"This!" Jasper grabs me by the fabric of my shirt and pulls me so close to his face I can feel his breath puff across my skin. It's hot and minty and I close my eyes from the sensation, scared and retreating and something else I can't stand to comprehend.

For seconds on end, nothing happens. I just hang there, eyes closed and limp in his arms as he holds me unbearably close, scrunched up by my wet shirt. His body is pressed to mine and I can feel every flat plane of muscle, every pulsing vein bursting beneath his skin. He's seething, and _right there_. So close, and yet nowhere near close enough.

I exhale a breath and it comes out a whimper. I kick myself for sounding so weak and feel tears sting at the corners of my eyes. Again. Fuck! I hate this. So damn much.

"Fuck you," I force out, my voice breaking. "Fuck you, Jasper."

"Stop fighting it. You're gonna kill yourself trying."

My hands come up and grab at what should be his shirt sleeves, but all I feel is taut skin because he's wearing that damn racerback tank again. I cling to the muscles of his arms, my fingers digging into the skin and pull myself closer to him.

I hate how he makes me feel. I hate how _much_ I feel when I'm around him, and how much it hurts when I'm not. I want to punch him bloody and hold him all at the same time, and I can't bear to choose one or the other because I can't breathe with the strain of deciding. Instead, I bury my face into the hot skin of his neck and wrap myself around him so damn tight I can't even pull air into my lungs when the burn for oxygen sears through my lungs.

I scratch at his back and hit his shoulder blades with a closed fist each time a new wave of emotion hits me but he doesn't do anything in retaliation—he just holds me. His arms are strong weights around my back and his chin is curled around my shoulder, fitting to me like a puzzle piece. I hate how perfect it feels. His fucking dyed black hair is soft against my face and smells like coconuts and weed, and I nuzzle even closer, 'cause for some reason that is the most soothing smell right now.

"Fuck you," I repeat, over and over. Hating it each time I say it, because each time it comes out more and more weak, less of a threat and more of a plea. I don't mean it. At all. I don't hate him either. What I feel is so much the opposite of hate I want to scream.

He holds me closer, his arms tightening, his body molding to mine so completely I have to hold back a sob at the feel of it. This is so wrong. So wrong.

So why am I hoping that he doesn't stop? Why do I want him to never let go? I feel like shit, I can't breathe and my eyes are stinging from the unshed tears, and yet I've never wanted to be someplace more than on this damn porch with him.

"Wanna go have a cookie at the pier?" He asks a few minutes later, and I smile despite myself. My anger has disappeared, somehow absorbed into the man holding me, and his simple question breaks the tension that'd been threatening to strangle me so easily, I wonder to myself how he does it.

I nod into his shoulder but I don't let go, and he lets me hold him. He lets me do whatever I want because he knows himself and he doesn't give a shit about the world around him. He's fucking brave. He's everything I'm not.

I'm not ready to let go, but I do. I step back and disentangle myself from him and hide my face, ashamed. Jasper goes inside for a moment, picking something up off the floor and walking back out: it's his tackle box. He takes my hand and drags me down the porch steps and I fight the urge to snap it back from his grasp because I don't want to stop touching him. He grounds me, and I'm too tired to care about what it all means. I just like the feel of his warm, strong palm clutching mine.

We walk the five streets to the pier, but I take back my hand a block or two past his house, feeling too awkward and uneasy to keep holding onto him. He doesn't say anything, but I see a small smile at his lips when I chance it and look his way.

"I'm sorry."

He stops and regards me with a raised eyebrow.

"I was an asshole back there," I explain.

"I understand."

I close my eyes and hold back. "You're too understanding Jasper."

He shrugs. "Let's just get to the pier. I need a cookie."

Two hours—and too many cookies to count—later we're driving at five miles an hour down the road in my Jeep, laughing like idiots. We decide that driving too fast in our stoned-ass state won't be safe for the community of garden gnomes around us. Naturally, this leads to a cruising speed utilizing only one horse power.

That makes me grin. "Horse power," I repeat out loud.

"House power." Jasper adds.

"Mouse power."

"Pouse power!"

"Pouse?"

I look over at Jasper and he loses it, doubling over in his seat. I push on the break and lean on the steering wheel. Pouse is the funniest fucking word ever.

When we finally get to my house, the sky is lightening over the rooftops and the large puddles left from last night's rain are disappearing into the sewers, as if it never happened.

For some reason that makes me incredibly sad, but then I giggle cause being sad is bad. _Mad. Lad. Had. Fad..._

More giggles.

We climb out of the car and attempt to walk up the porch steps, but something makes Jasper laugh which then makes me laugh, and we're so fucked. I make a valiant effort for the door and right before I grab the knob it occurs to me that we should be quiet. Carlisle could be home.

"Shhhh," I say, putting my finger to my lips and leaning in close to Jasper. My giggles stop abruptly when I realize that our foreheads are touching, and our lips are so close I can feel his breath against my finger. Suddenly, my finger becomes the last stronghold in my body to keep me from giving into whatever it is Jasper's been doing to me.

And I want to give in. So badly.

With questioning eyes, I slowly lower my hand from my mouth, leaving nothing but an inch of space between us. Jasper's hands are already on me—having used me for support—and my other arm is slung over his shoulder. I hadn't noticed how intertwined we were, but now that I do, I can see that we have been for a while. In more ways than one.

For some insane reason, I close the distant between our lips and when I do, I hear Jasper groan with something that sounds like desperation.

Suddenly, strong arms are around me and shaking hands are pushing into my hair and down my back. I'm molded to Jasper within seconds, and I'm shocked out of my mind. His tongue is pushing against my lips, and when I feel his knee press between my legs I gasp and he dives in, hot tongue and warm flesh fighting with my own. He's chocolate and herb and delicious, and I pull him closer, moaning with the effort of wanting him so damn much.

His hair is soft and his skin is warm, and there's a rasp of stubble along his chin that feels fucking amazing against my own. His hips move into mine and I jump slightly but Jasper has me so tight, I can't get very far. He doesn't stop kissing me as he pushes me into the front door, his hips giving an upward thrust as he does. I throw my head back and grunt at the sensation. He's so hard, and rubbing against my cock and the combination is incredible.

This is too much, too fast, and I want to tell him _stop, pause, wait..._but all I'm doing is pulling his hair and dragging his mouth back to mine.

All of a sudden, I'm flying backwards into my house, Jasper falling with me as someone wrenches open the door. We stumble to the floor in a heap, Jasper on top of me and I scramble to see my father standing over me with a dazed expression.

"I heard noises," he says, scratching his head in a very un-Carlisle like fashion.

"Jasper?" A female voice calls, and I redden even further when I see Esme step into my line of sight.

I don't even have time to think _awkward_ before my father is snorting into his palm and Esme is holding back her own giggles behind him. She puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder and he turns to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Ho shit..." Jasper says on top of me, and I mirror his thought.

"Are you two...?" _Stoned...Together...Sampling from Jasper's stash?_

They just laugh.

Jasper drops his head to my shoulder in defeat and I stare amazed up at our parents. They're stoned...on a school night.

That thought is entirely too amusing and I have to hold back a snort, since Jasper's hair is all over my face. I want to wrap my arms around him, but I still feel awkward on the floor with our parents above us. He takes the decision out of my hands a moment later when he curls himself around me like a damn cat. I give in and thread my fingers into his soft hair, moving it away from tickling my nose.

The giggling stops from above us and we look up simultaneously to see the shocked faces of Carlisle and Esme. I catch a slight smile on Esme's face before I feel the weight of Jasper leave me.

He jumps up to his feet and grabs my hand.

"I'm very disappointed in you two," he says with mock authority. "We're going to give you some time alone to think about what you've done."

And with that, he drags me up the stairs, away from the adults in the front hall. I take over at the second floor, leading him to my room.

"I can't believe that," I tell him as we get to my door. He opens it.

"I know."

"Did you know?" I ask. We walk inside.

"No."

"But—"

"Edward," Jasper says, gaining my attention. I stare at him. "I don't care. I just want to kiss you."

And he does. Until my alarm goes off five minutes later and we slump to the floor in a heap.

Time to get ready for school.

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_End_

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A/N: Thank you for reading, and a very big thank you to YogaGal and AngstGoddes003 for hosting this high-larious contest. I can't wait to read the rest of the entries.


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